


Their Best Man

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, sherlock season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This began as a one-shot which evolved into a multi-parted story and portrays a few scenes from "His Last Vow" which I found were missing in the episode. Not Johnlock, contains spoilers for Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Shooting

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains massive spoilers for His Last Vow.
> 
> I loved the episode but felt that something was missing after Sherlock collapsed in 221B, a notion which was shared by a friend and probably many others, so here goes. I'm not a native English speakers, so I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

 For _Prothoe_

 

**Their Best Man**

 

Part 1: After the Shooting

 

* * *

 

...no...

...no. Didn't...

...something...

...tired. Eyes too, wouldn't open...

 

Something was weighing him down. Sherlock became aware that this had bothered him for a while, yet there hadn't been any apparent shift from sleeping to being awake. He was bone-tired, and something seemed to be lying across his body. Redbeard, probably, although he wasn't allowed in the bed. Didn't matter, Sherlock decided, he was glad that his dog was with him. He didn't even realize that his eyes were closing again.

 

Gradually, he registered things; a hand clutching his own, warm, dry, papery. His dad. There was a noise which he eventually recognized as his own name being said, and the voice confirmed his first assumption: it was his dad who was there. Why? He didn't know. He was ever so tired.

 _Sherlock_.

The voice wouldn't give up. With an effort, he blinked his eyes open; his father's outline was blurry at first.

"Sherlock," he said, and then his hand was on Sherlock's face. He was trembling, heaven knew why, as was his voice. "Can you hear me?"

Stupid question.

"Of course," was what he meant to say, though it came out as a croak because his throat was unpleasantly dry.

"Are you in pain?"

Interesting. Something must have happened, something other than an overdose, because there was no reproval in his father's tone, only concern.

"No," he managed and wanted to ask for something to drink, but funnily enough, his eyes couldn't be bothered to stay open. With a sigh, he allowed them to close again; he really was very tired.

 

The next time he awoke, the thirst was overwhelming. There was no hand, but he could sense someone else's presence before he had opened his eyes, which was much easier than before.

It was John who was with him, looking tired and unkempt but also relieved.

Sherlock couldn't get out a single sound and John fortunately had the common sense to offer him some water before trying to talk to him.

Sherlock regarded him, still feeling woozy but remembering now, recalling what had happened. He must be high on morphine, because he didn't feel any pain; floaty, more likely. Was that a word? He'd ask... no. Was unimportant. John was important. Lovely, loyal John who apparently had not gone home in the meantime, and of course he didn't know what had transpired. Mary. Sherlock needed to talk to her, tell her he'd help her. John needed to know, needed to see that Mary hadn't had another choice. Sherlock knew how that felt, thank you very much, Jim from IT. He would have saluted him, he thought giddily, if he had felt like he could move. Hm... on second thought, maybe there was more than just morphine in that drip. Really, he felt rather floaty. Now, _was_ that a word at all? _Focus_ , he told himself.

"Mary," he croaked, noting with satisfaction that his voice was much stronger than before. Now what was he going to say?"

John looked amused: "Had some sweet dreams?" he asked, obviously not following but drawing some entirely wrong conclusions. Well, there wasn't much to follow yet, Sherlock had to concede. And John had never been that quick on the uptake anyway. He was looking at the machine next to Sherlock's bed now: "Readings are looking good," he said, "you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Why was he talking about feet? Sherlock couldn't even feel his feet right then because of all the... floatiness. Best to close his eyes for a bit, probably.

Within seconds, he was asleep again.

 

Once he was able to stay awake for longer and the medication wasn't addling his mind as badly (nor were his parents around any longer) he felt not only exhausted but battered; John had reluctantly told him that he had in fact been subjected to cardiopulmonary resuscitation as a direct result of his heart having stopped. The very fact was more difficult to grasp than he'd expected. It was good that John had been there, because he understood what was going on in Sherlock's mind, how it felt to know how close a shave it had been.

Sherlock had decided not to tell him about Mary; if he did, John was very likely to go and do something he'd later regret. No, there had to be another way, a way which ensured John'd understand, make him forgive his wife... with a shaking hand, Sherlock reached for the regulation of his morphine drip. He needed to think.

* * *

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!

 

 


	2. Mary, Revealed

 

**Their Best Man**

 

Part 2: Mary, Revealed

* * *

 

 At one point during that long, seemingly everlasting night, John Watson became aware that his left palm was bleeding. He had balled up his fist into a tight knot once too often and hadn't even realized when he had broken the skin, too distracted by the mercilessly reeling thoughts in his mind, the loud rhythm of his own heart in his ears.

It became slightly erratic when he thought of his wife, thrown off kilter by the unwelcome revelations about her past and what she had done to his best friend. Whose heart had been beating erratically as well when they arrived here - _here_ being the private hospital Sherlock had escaped from earlier-, though in his case, the problem, if caused by the same person as John's, was much more serious. At least he had not, as predicted, flatlined in the ambulance, but it had been a close call.

And now John was left to wait again while Sherlock was in surgery, both of them put in the same situation they had been in only days earlier, and once more, it had all been caused by Mary. A fresh wave of red, hot anger surged through John as he saw her face in front of his inner eye, replayed the scenes in Leinster Gardens and 221B in his head.

How could he ever trust her again? How was he going to look forward to the child she was carrying, _their_ child? An assassin's child, and his?

 

It didn't matter now. With all the resolve he could muster, he forced his thoughts to return to Sherlock. Once John had been able to see through the haze of cold fury and disappointment he had felt when he had made Mary explain, he had for the first time that night truly taken in the sight of his friend who was being tended to by the paramedics, had consciously registered how wretched he looked, the sounds of pain he couldn't subdue any longer.

It had torn at his heart violently, much more so in fact than his wife's betrayal. Because Sherlock had deliberately taken the risk to release himself from hospital way too early and aggravate his injuries in order to make John see. He could have just told him who'd shot him, but he knew it'd have destroyed everything. Instead, he therefore staged a show-down, forcing husband and wife to face each other, to try and make John understand _why_ Mary had done it.

He didn't _want_ to understand, John thought stubbornly, digging his nails into his palm once more and then wincing at the pain, he didn't want Sherlock to protect Mary. And yet, the detective had been true to his vow, the vow he had made on a seemingly long-ago day, a happy day.

Could happiness be unmade in retrospect, John wondered, because all he felt when thinking of his wedding right then was a cold lump in his stomach.

 

Think of Sherlock, he reminded himself. Sherlock, who had nearly given his life a second time, not counting his rooftop stunt, in order to preserve John's... what? Happiness? Sanity? Life as he knew it? No, John decided grimly, Sherlock didn't think like that. He'd probably had had the baby in mind.

_Wrong_ , a small but distinctive voice in his head protested. _He does care about your happiness, you know that_.

With agonizingly slow movements, because anything else seemed impossible, John crouched down in one corner of the waiting room, scrunched up his face and wept.

* * *

Later, he was allowed to see Sherlock.

He had calmed down after a while, and the tears had had a rather cathartic effect. Yet when he entered Sherlock's room in the ICU, he immediately felt distraught again; it had been dreadful the first time and it was dreadful now. Sherlock's face was ashen, his lips seemed white. He looked... depleted, and John's stomach was churning for a moment.

A few nights ago, he'd at least had the reassuring thought in his mind that Mary was there, which had been strangely comforting. Now he felt shabby for even thinking that.

_Human error_ , he thought bitterly. He looked down at his friend's motionless form and tried to blink the fresh tears away; back in 221B, a few hours earlier, he had been so furious, so mind-numbingly crestfallen, that he had failed to see what Sherlock was actually doing. He had yelled at the detective, for heaven's sake, had even threatened to knock him out, ignoring how his friend had swayed on his feet because he couldn't deal with that on top of everything else.

John still couldn't quite comprehend why Sherlock kept defending Mary after what she'd done, but even before the paramedics had arrived he had left the thin red line between hate and gratitude he had felt ever since Leinster Gardens. All of his resentment of Sherlock, of his _knowing_ , had in fact melted away in the ambulance.

 

He hadn't called Mycroft this time; he had been informed that Sherlock was stable for the time being, there was no need to give the older Holmes a scare at this time of night. He had been terrified enough the first time, had looked like a ghost while they were waiting, clutching the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were white.

Now however it was only Sherlock and John. The detective looked exhausted even in his drug-induced sleep, and John felt ashamed about his earlier accusations; he couldn't have wished for a more loyal friend than this lunatic who called himself a high-functioning sociopath. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's more firmly, trying not to think of the fact that Mary hadn't shown any sign of remorse that it had been her doing, her fault that his friend was lying here, having nearly died twice.

John bit his lip; Sherlock had asked him to trust Mary. Clearly, he saw something in her which made him think she was worth it, after all.

He shook his head, briefly closing his eyes before returning his gaze to his unconscious friend who looked alarmingly frail right then: "You were wrong, Sherlock," he murmured, "all that matters right now are _you_. Not Magnussen, not... her." He didn't permit himself to think of the baby when it already hurt so much not to say Mary's name; her assumed name, chosen for her false identity. A fa _ç_ ade, just like the two houses in Leinster gardens. A shattered reality.

John shook his head once more: "I'm sorry," he whispered, aware that his voice was trembling, "but I think you'll have to get used to the chair blocking your view of the kitchen again."

At least as long as he couldn't bear the thought of sharing the same bed with Mary. Moving back into 221B might provide a temporary solution; not without Sherlock though. Swallowing around the awfully persistent lump in his throat, John remembered how devastatingly empty the flat had been after Sherlock's alleged death.

 

His eyes were brimming again as he blindly groped for Sherlock's hand, needing something to hold on to; if further complications arose and the detective didn't survive this, John'd not only lose his best friend but the one reliable element in his life that he had left.

Shakily, he exhaled, telling himself to buck up and that he was _not_ going to lose Sherlock again.

"You promised," he said a few minutes later, somewhat more steady, "you made a vow that you'd always be there for me." He knew that Sherlock probably couldn't hear him, but he felt better for having said it.

Gently, he reinforced his grip around his friend's hand once more; he was determined to take Sherlock up on his word.

* * *

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

 


	3. A Space to Fill a Lack

 

 

**Their Best Man**

 

Part 3: A Space to Fill a Lack

 

Redbeard was there again. Sherlock could feel him, a reassuring, warm weight next to his hip. The dog yawned, as usual ending on a funny little yip. From the content sounds which followed, Sherlock could tell that Redbeard was settling down comfortably and about to fall asleep, the good sort of sleep he'd wake up from again. Sherlock wanted to touch him; the Irish Setter's fur was velvety soft, especially around the ears and the pads under his paws. The detective couldn't lift his hand though, it was too heavy. For a moment, disappointment made itself known, but he was too tired to dwell on it; at least Redbeard was with him and wouldn't disappear so quickly. The thought was immensely comforting, and he listened to his dog's quiet snuffling until he dozed off again, unaware that it was John who was sitting with him, John who wouldn't dream of going to sleep right then because he was keeping vigil.

He didn't dare to leave his friend's side after Sherlock's second round of surgery. He had gotten through it without any major complications, but he was visibly worse for wear afterwards; the way he had risked his life was taking its toll on him. He had developed an infection and, as a result, a rather persistent fever which left him even more drained than the original trauma.

In fact, during the first days after Leinster Gardens, as John secretly called it because he couldn't bear to think of it too much once his initial murderous fury had died down, Sherlock was so depleted that he mainly slept, a sleep which was bordering on unconsciousness; when he woke, he was barely lucid.

It was frightening enough to keep John at his side, or at least in or near the room when other people were there. The number of those who were allowed into the ICU was limited though, which was a blessing. John couldn't imagine having to contend with most of everyone they knew. Sherlock's parents came to visit of course, taking up residence in a hotel nearby, but Mycroft was doing his best to lure them into the cafeteria or outside to get some air a few times; Mrs Holmes' continuous, quiet sobbing in the background and the crestfallen, anxious look on Mr Holmes Senior's face was hard to bear, which even the British Government seemed to have realized. Just as hard as it must be for Sherlock's parents to see him like that, John thought. If _he_ was distraught because Sherlock seemed entirely too vulnerable, too ill, too weak, it had to be much worse for his mum and dad, who had known him his entire life, remembered him as a child.

To be fair, Mycroft was rather quiet as well, if more composed than during the night of the shooting. If he was suspicious about the circumstances of Sherlock's dis- and reappearance, he didn't let it on.

* * *

Of course, Mycroft was aware that something had been badly off, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy to investigate; for once, he thought he had an inkling what it must be like as a goldfish. His thoughts were too slow for his own liking, weighed down by the worry about his brother. The others didn't need to know how much he actually cared for Sherlock, always had. So he waited for an opportunity, which came one night when John, overwhelmed by his fatigue, had fallen asleep in a chair by Sherlock's bed.

Silently, Mycroft stepped closer, his eyes roaming over his brother's haggard face, his thin arms, the face again; Sherlock's features seemed tense even in sleep, and Mycroft wished he could smoothe whatever the reasons away, allow the boy some rest. A fine sheen of sweat was covering Sherlock's forehead; that, at least, Mycroft was able to help with. He took a cloth from the nightstand and gently dabbed at Sherlock's face just as John had done occasionally. The skin still was far too warm, Mycroft noted unhappily, despite the antipyretics.

"You never do anything by half, do you, Sherlock," he said softly, a statement rather than a question. Putting the cloth back, he folded his fingers around the safety railing and just looked at his brother, catching himself at wishing all this was over. It was with a bit of a surprise that Mycroft Holmes realized that he, who had watched Sherlock being beaten by that Serbian without so much as batting an eye, found it nearly unbearable to witness his younger brother like this, mostly unconscious, defenseless, _still_.

* * *

Mrs Holmes calmed down a bit when Sherlock's condition, even though it was not improving, at least didn't deteriorate further. Since she couldn't do anything for her younger son and was vigorously fended off by her older son, she put her energy into taking care of John, smuggling food and the occasional coffee in for him. He didn't feel like eating or drinking, but he made an effort to appreciate it.

Inevitably, Sherlock's mother asked about Mary, wondering why she hadn't come by at all; John, with all the self-composure he could muster, said she was afraid of contracting something, what with illnesses abound in a hospital, and Mrs Holmes seemed content with the explanation, even though it sounded lame in John's own ears.

On the few occasions that he actually stepped outside, he noticed that he had lost count of the time and date but found he didn't care. His thoughts were with Sherlock; whenever they strayed into Mary territory, he immediately forced himself not to go there. And it wasn't that difficult, really, because he couldn't shake off the disappointment, the knowledge that he had been betrayed. The small voice in his mind he'd come to call 'the troublemaker' insisted on pointing out that Sherlock could have voiced his suspicions about Mary a long time ago, but John deliberately ignored that too; Sherlock had paid the price for this stupidity, he decided, no need to dwell on that.

In fact, it only took one look at his friend in his current state to make himself feel guilty, as unreasonable as he knew, deep down, as it was. He didn't understand why Mary hadn't chosen to shoot at a limb if she had only wanted to incapacitate Sherlock; she must have known that the spot she actually hit guaranteed more than a flesh wound but was bound to cause internal bleeding and therefore, was seriously dangerous.

John shook his head, concentrating on Sherlock, who currently was being agitated, muttering under his breath. It was mostly unintelligible, though John caught the odd word: "Redbeard," for example, was something Sherlock repeated a few times before he fell silent again.

 

John asked Mycroft about it one morning while the nurse on duty was busy in Sherlock's room: "Who's Redbeard?" he asked, thinking he'd read that name before. "A famous pirate, I gather?"

Mycroft looked surprised: "No," he then replied, curtly, taking on a pensive, almost pained expression for a moment: "Redbeard was our dog."

"Your _dog_." It was the least thing John had expected.

"An Irish Setter, to be precise," Mycroft continued, "our father brought him home from a shelter when Sherlock was five. They took an instant liking to each other and were rather inseparable." He smiled, briefly, before sighing: "Unfortunately, Redbeard developed osteosarcoma when Sherlock was eleven. He never forgave my parents for putting the dog down." Mycroft was never going to forget the screams, the desperate crying. Sherlock had known that it had been for Redbeard's sake, that his parents didn't want the dog to suffer, and yet- he'd needed to blame _some_ one.

For a whole month, Sherlock didn't speak a word, hid from the world whenever possible, barely ate. It taught Mycroft how a broken heart looked like, what kind of havoc feelings could wreak. Whichever damage Sherlock did to himself in the years to come, caused by drug abuse and a reckless lifestyle, it did not once leave him as hollowed and bereft as the loss of his faithful childhood companion.

John didn't know what to say. He was surprised, as Sherlock seemed as indifferent to animals as he often was to people.

"I think it was one of the reasons why my brother turned to science later on," Mycroft mused, pensively, "learning to appreciate reliable facts which are calculable most of the time."

John considered this: "Which probably is also why he turned away from it again at one point. It's lacking a certain thrill, after all."

Mycroft gave him a thin smile: "True," he acknowledged, and it sounded almost approvingly.

* * *

When the fever finally began to abate, the overall relief was palpable.

John temporarily moved back into Baker Street. Well, it was maybe less of a move and more of a preferring the flat to being in his and Mary's house. In fact, he only returned there once, in the middle of the night, feeling like a ghost. A burglar, more likely, though the term caused him far too much pain to bear thinking about, reminding him of _the_ night again, the watershed between _now_ and _then_.

He snuck through the rooms on silent feet, collecting the few items he wanted to take with him, and stopped in front of the bedroom door, unable to go on for an unaccounted amount of time. It was tempting to pretend nothing had happened, to simply crawl into bed with his wife and hold her close, because he missed her more than he could comprehend and in the dark of the night, a lot of things looked different. And yet, it was impossible. Too vivid were the unbidden mental images of Sherlock which now assaulted him, from the ride in the ambulance for example, or more recently, of Sherlock in his hospital bed, feverish and ill and completely bereft of his usual energy.

Silently, numbly, John padded over to the wardrobe and opened the door, pulling out a few folded shirts and one jumper. He stopped dead when Mary turned and mumbled something, but she didn't wake up. After that, he didn't have the nerve to open his dresser, since the drawers were squeaking. Sod the underwear, he told himself, he'd buy new stuff. And he could always borrow an old t-shirt of Sherlock's to sleep in.

As quietly as he had come, he fled.

* * *

He spent a lot of time in the hospital, more time than he could actually afford. He had given up his dayjob at the surgery, admittedly with a feeling of secret relief, though he'd eventually have to find something else. At least the house belonged to Mary, there was no rent to pay, and he hadn't sorted out his old room with Mrs Hudson yet, but none of it seemed important.

Sherlock was all that mattered, just as he had told his friend.

Even though Sherlock was on the mend, he seemed permanently exhausted and only had the desire to sleep. He wouldn't look at the papers John brought him and hardly ever talked.

He did ask John about Mary once, soon after the darned fever had finally ceased, but didn't insist when John simply pursed his lips and refused to answer, only murmured: "Talk to her," in a barely audible voice, shortly before falling asleep.

"What do _you_ know?" John had snapped.

When Sherlock had woken up the next time, John had apologized to him.

* * *

 

It seems we're still not done with this yet, therefore:

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.

 


	4. Mary, the Aftermath

 

**Their Best Man**

 

Part 4: Mary, the Aftermath

 

 

Mary was pacing, cursing under her breath all the while.

This wasn't supposed to have happened, it simply wasn't. Why on earth did Sherlock Holmes of all people have to come in just as she had been about to shoot Magnussen?

Her heart was beating in her throat as she recalled his voice, his expression; he had been so certain she wouldn't pull the trigger on him, certain that she was too fond of him, wouldn't want to upset John. And yet- she didn't have a choice, did she?

It hadn't exactly been her best shot. She had been upset, thrown off track by the detective's appearance and the realization what the consequences had to be, inevitably, and it had been the first time she could remember that she had become nervous. She had managed to hide it, and yet- she still wasn't sure whether she wanted the bullet to hit Sherlock where it had hit him, or whether she had intended to aim at a less life-threatening spot. It had been too confusing, too close to home in the literal sense of the word.

 

She cursed again, biting on the nail of her thumb; she hadn't lied about Sherlock, she did like him. A mistake, she told herself, always a mistake to become too attached. Only it hadn't supposed to be like this. Her old life should have stayed hidden away, forgotten by anyone but her. Everything had been fine until Magnussen had reared his ugly head. The minute Sherlock had read his 'telegram' out loud at the wedding, Mary had known that she'd have to stop the man.

It had taken months of careful planning, complicated by the fact that she was married and pregnant now and couldn't move as freely as before, but she had finally made a plan. Janine had unknowingly helped her; a few girls' nights out with lots of booze involved (at least for all who weren't with child) had brought about the necessary information she had still needed. And now she wondered which cruel kind of fate had allowed John and Sherlock to break into Magnussen's office on exactly the day she had chosen to terminate the man?

She scoffed at nothing in particular, shaking her head; it wasn't fair.

It also wasn't fair to lie to John, but she had, not only in pretending to be someone she actually wasn't, but also today, tonight. He had called her from the hospital, voice flat and desperate, to tell her that Sherlock had been shot and the outlook wasn't good.

A small part of her, the part which she usually managed to keep under lock and key because it frightened her and made her ashamed of herself, was relieved; if Sherlock didn't survive, her secret remained safe, at least as safe as it could be in the hands of Charles Augustus Magnussen. And yet, the other part of her, the part which consisted of Mary Watson, nurse, friend to her husband's Best Man, wanted to cry.

 

There was no ideal solution, of course not; if Sherlock survived, she'd have to make sure he didn't tell John. How she'd go about that, she had no idea. She doubted he'd be intimidated by her, not even now that he knew. She'd have to wait until he was better and see about her possibilites. Maybe she could use John or Mrs Hudson in order to reinforce her point (she avoided to think 'blackmail'); maybe, if she was very, very lucky, Sherlock wouldn't remember anything at all. The chances of that were probably slim though, and it'd be even worse because she'd never know if he'd one day miraculously regain those memories.

It'd be easiest to kill him, finish what she had started. Only she couldn't. Despite all her years of active service and the fact that she had already shot him once, she couldn't even imagine to really end his life just to save hers. It was one thing to act under pressure, but it was an entirely different affair if you had time to think about it. And Sherlock, that damn, annoying, man, kept sneaking up on her- she found herself remembering some rather endearing situations and realized just how much she liked him. Loved him, in fact, the way it should be in an ideal world.

 

No, she concluded, cursing again, killing him definitely was not an option. She'd have to be very careful, of course, but she'd somehow manage to keep her secret. What she was going to do about Magnussen, she had no idea; for now, she needed to focus on the problems more close too home, literally speaking.

Subconsciously, she put one hand on her belly, feeling the baby bump under her blouse: it wasn't only herself she was protecting, after all.

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

 


	5. 'Tis The Season To Be Scheming

 

 

**Their Best Man**

 

Part 5: 'Tis The Season To Be Scheming

 

 

Sherlock came home from hospital on a cold day in November. Mrs Hudson had been waiting impatiently, only twice leaving her spot by the window to check on the cake she was baking; when the smooth black car Mycroft had sent pulled up at the curve in front of the entrance, she gave an excited little hoot and went to open the front door.

Sherlock was still very pale and actually looked shrunk, the Belstaff seemingly too large for him. He moved slowly, and the way John was staying by his side attentively told Mrs Hudson all she needed to know.

So she beckoned them inside and out of the cold wind before she stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek: "Hello, darling," she said softly, "finally!"

Sherlock gave her a small smile, but his eyes were already on the stairs, which seemed to prove quite a challenge. John exchanged a look with Mrs Hudson: "Come on," he then said to Sherlock, "I don't know about you, but I could really use a cuppa now."

* * *

It took several minutes until they reached the second landing, and by the time Sherlock eased himself onto the sofa, he was shaking from the exertion and obviously annoyed by his weakened state.

"You'll get there," John said quietly. "It's going to be a little better each day." He knew what he was talking about, of course, but Sherlock huffed nevertheless, if a little breathlessly.

When the doctor came back in with the teapot a few minutes later, Sherlock had not moved; he was looking around the room as though having to re-acquaint himself with it. He could already feel the seemingly endless time at the hospital slip off of him; he still carried the scent on his skin and in his hair, but he was going to delete most of the memories soon, leaving this particularly unpleasant chapter behind.

He needed to focus on other things now. He had used the time of uselessly lying around to draft a plan how to proceed with Magnussen, a plan he had finalised after their recent meeting at the café (which, even though it could be counted as a success, still smarted a little). All he had to do now was to create an appropriate occasion, and he had something specific in mind.

He had already asked Mycroft to keep an eye on Mary for the time being. His brother had been curious as to why Sherlock was concerned about her, but Sherlock had only told him that John worried something might happen to her during their separation.

"About that," Mycroft had said, "While I do understand that John's worried about you, his wife is pregnant, after all. I find it a rather strange coincidence that he moved back in with you at such a time."

"Really?" Sherlock had replied. "Well, I don't." With that, he had hung up.

* * *

Mrs Hudson came in with a plate of still warm cake, which she put on the coffee table before sitting down next to Sherlock: "It's good to have you home, dear," she said, resting her hand on his arm.

Sherlock knew he should apologize for yelling at her the way he had done on the day of Mary's revelation; she must have been hurt by his words, even if she did not show it. And yet he had no idea what to say. So he simply put his hand on top of hers for a moment, which seemed to please her.

Their eyes followed John, who brought in cups and saucers and gave them a brief smile before returning to the kitchen once more.

"It was about time you came back," Mrs Hudson said in an undertone. "He's devastated, if you ask me. He hardly eats, and I think he does not sleep very well. I could hear him walking around at night. It reminded me of-" She fell silent when John came back in.

What Mrs Hudson just told Sherlock only confirmed what he had already deduced; he had lost weight and looked much older than he had with the moustache. The frown lines on his forehead had deepened considerably during the past few weeks, and whenever he smiled, his eyes remained sad. And that was exactly what was irritating Sherlock to the point of worrying: all the anger, the boundless fury John had shown once he had learned the truth about Mary had disappeared, giving way to a profound unhappiness reminiscent, according to Mrs Hudson, of the two years during which John had believed Sherlock to be dead.

But Mary could not be dead to John, that was not supposed to happen. Mary and her unborn child were the key to John's future happiness, something Sherlock wanted him to have: he deserved it, and it might be able to protect him if something happened to someone else John loved. Because that was something Sherlock had not understood the first time, namely the time he had faked his death: the other people in John's life back then had not been sufficient replacements for himself. No one had been able to prevent John from suffering the way he had, and Sherlock hoped that something like that was never going to happen to his friend again.

* * *

They drank tea with Mrs Hudson chatting about the weather and Mrs Turner's new admirer, and Sherlock allowed himself to be lulled into the warm familiarity of home. It could have been any point in time just before Moriarty had turned up, and even to some extent after he had already entered the stage.

"Will you have some cake, my dear?"

Mrs Hudson's question pulled him out his musings. He did not feel like eating, but there was nothing to it: if he wanted John to eat, he'd have to do it as well. So he accepted a piece, which admittedly smelled very good.

"Thank God for Mrs Hudson," John remarked once their landlady had left, leaving the rest of the cake with them. "Which reminds me- one day, you'll have to tell me about the exotic dancing thing."

Sherlock slowly got to his feet: "You could just youtube it."

"That'd only be half the fun."

Sherlock tilted his head and hummed in agreement. He was tired, and as much as he loathed to admit it, his body craved a bed rather than the sofa. "I'll go and lie down for a bit," he said. "Thank you for the tea."

John raised an eyebrow: "Did you just _thank_ me for the tea?"

"Don't get used it," Sherlock replied over his shoulder, "it's probably the drugs meddling with my brain."

John nodded, grinning a little.

 

In his room, Sherlock slid out of his trousers, then sat down on his bed: everything looked as he had left it. Or no, probably not. He usually was very tidy in here, but on that weird, fateful day on which Mary had shot him, Janine had been here and he had not had any time to properly make the bed. Since it was her last... visit, a few of her things were still there, such as a flimsy nightgown which hung on the hook of the door.

He had mostly forgotten about Janine already; she had been vivacious and a little superficial, he was certain that she was also buoyant enough to make the best of her fifteen minutes of fame and the amenities which came with it, such as the house in Sussex.

It was nice to have his room for himself again he thought as he crawled under the covers, not bothering to undress further; he was wearing a soft jersey which John had bought for him, since he deemed it more comfortable than a dress shirt. Which was true, so Sherlock had not complained.

Finally lying in his own bed felt heavenly. Later on he would have to shower in order to get rid of the hospital smell, but for now he was content to just close his eyes and listen to the quietness of 221B around him.

* * *

Over the next few days, John and Sherlock resumed living together with surprising ease. True, they did not once talk about the situation at hand: it was as though Mary Watson or Charles Augustus Magnussen did not exist. Not on the surface, at least.

All in all, John was considerably quieter than usual. He did not talk much, and it was apparent that he still had not talked to his wife. He was patient and gentle with Sherlock, who after only one day at home decided he was bored and craved something to occupy his mind whenever he was not occupied with, well, the situation at hand. His mother had called to try and invite him for Thanksgiving, which, ever since she and Father had spent several holidays in the USA to practise their infernal line dancing, she had become quite a fan of. Now she wanted to use it as an excuse to "celebrate that you're home from hospital".

Sherlock had declined because he knew Mycroft would not be there, and had rather subtly begun to drop hints about Christmas instead. It was ever so easy to plant ideas in people's heads, after all.

After two more days of complaining, he finally had John suggesting that he should ask Lestrade for a few cold cases in order to keep him from destroying things.

Sherlock was not very keen on the files Lestrade brought by one evening, but it'd be something John could tell Mycroft in case his brother inquired about his sibling's activities.

John also made Sherlock move around; first in the flat only, then up and down the stairs, then venturing outside; each day a little more in order to build up his muscles and get back his strength.

* * *

The nights were more difficult. Sherlock could hear John walking around his room, just as Mrs Hudson had said; it was the anger which completely disappeared during the days. At night it came back to haunt and enrage John, and it left him exhausted.

It was worse when he was completely quiet and no sound permeated the old walls. On some such occasions, Sherlock had climbed up the stairs to his friend's room and had sat down on the topmost one, waiting, listening.

The third time he did this, John came out at one point, wordlessly sitting down next to Sherlock. The detective could feel that his friend was trembling, but the fight had left him already, if it had been there at all that night. He was tired and disappointed and hunched in on himself. Sherlock, after a moment of deliberation, tentatively put his arm around John's shoulders, and he leaned into the touch ever so slightly.

Sherlock realized he had been wrong about the Mary situation. He had urged John to talk to her and sort it out, but it seemed that the doctor needed to sort it out for himself first; he had not read the files on the USB stick yet and probably never would. It was difficult enough as it was, but it was he who had to make that decision. And Sherlock understood that he could not push John in this matter. He was at the end of his tether anyway, very close to breaking.

All the while in the hospital, he had been there for Sherlock, for Sherlock's parents, even for Mr Insufferable a.k.a. Mycroft. He had provided strength and, in Sherlock's case, rather unconditional love, if one could call it that. But yes, love was what the had said when he had asked Sherlock to be his Best Man, and during his speech, Sherlock had told him that it was reciprocated.

Why people kept romanticizing it was beyond the detective, but he was grateful that John had been with him during those dreadful days on which he had constantly hovered between sleep and wakefulness and fever, feeling like an old man whenever he moved so much as a finger. Grateful that it had been John who had found him in the bathroom when, after his first glorious shower in weeks, he had somehow found himself on the floor after a dizzy spell, wet and naked and in fresh pain. Grateful that John was with him now, despite the circumstances; he could not deny himself this selfish thought, even though he knew that the current arrangement was going to have end soon, for John's and Mary's sake, but also for the baby's.

So he kept his arm around his friend and counted the minutes until the trembling abated.

On the following morning, he called his mother; Christmas it was going to be, then.

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

 

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	6. Lingering

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**Their Best Man**

 

Part 6: Lingering

 

 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, which felt uncomfortably gritty. Blinking, he tried to grasp the voices which had been in his head just seconds ago; it was John, telling him something important, and someone else. He could hear their echoes, but the words eluded him, drifting away like wisps of smoke as he slowly sat up, remembering now that he had allowed himself a nap after tea. Despite the daily exercise, he was still extraordinarily tired a lot of the time, causing him to lie down and sleep for a bit at rather unusual times.

He frowned; something had woken him. Not John, apparently, as the doctor had gone out. He had refused to say why, so he was probably buying Christmas presents.

The doorbell rang, maximum pressure for more than two seconds, expressing impatience. Second ring, then; the first one must have woken him.

Since Mrs Hudson did not seem to be there to answer the door, Sherlock got to his feet and went downstairs with measured movements.

 

To his surprise, it was Molly. She gave the detective a lopsided smile: "Hi. Is this a bad time?"

"It's all rather boring at the moment," Sherlock said, stepping aside to let her in, "so no, I wouldn't think so."

"I just wanted to see how you were," she said as they climbed the stairs, "and bring you something."

"Fingers?"

"Better."

"Eyes?"

"Better."

"A brain?"

"No."

"What could be better than a brain?"

Molly smiled again, mischievously this time, and reached into her bag, handing him a plastic container:"This."

Sherlock held it up to peer through the transparent material: "Biscuits?"

"I made them myself. They're Christmas cookies."

"Ah." Sherlock subdued a sigh; a brain would have been preferable. "That's... very kind. Thank you."

Molly blushed, and he wondered whether she was ever going to be able not to do that in his presence whenever he said something remotely friendly.

After a moment of awkward silence, he gestured towards the electric kettle: "Tea?"

"Yes, please."

While he put on some water to boil, Molly sat down at the kitchen table. "So, how are you?" she asked, but something in her tone had Sherlock, who really did not want to engage in smalltalk, turn around and regard her for a moment: "Better than you, it seems," he then replied.

Molly avoided his gaze, though she did not protest. She fumbled with the hem of her awful, Christmas-themed cardigan: "I don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock could have told her what he had read in her looks, her posture, her voice, her mimics and her clothes: that she was not sleeping very well lately because she hated being alone during Christmas time, that she had had contact with Tom but it had not ended well, that she was dreading the holidays, which she was going to spend with her mother and her new partner.

He was trying to be more supportive of her however, and his stating the obvious would not have helped to improve anything, on the contrary, as John would have warned him. So he did not say anything, just hummed agreeingly and returned to making tea.

It seemed Molly just needed some company. Why she had chosen him of all people was a mystery to him; maybe it was because they had come to a certain understanding. But then again, maybe she had hoped John would be there.

"How are things with John and Mary?" she asked once she had her voice under control again. Molly did not know it was Mary who had shot Sherlock, but it was no secret among their acquaintances that the Watsons were going through a rough patch and that John had temporarily moved back to Baker Street.

Sherlock shrugged in what he hoped looked like an uncomfortable gesture: "I don't ask."

Which, strictly speaking, was true, because he did not need to. Molly however seemed to think he was being discreet, and nodded understandingly.

"It must be hard for them," she mused. "With Mary being pregnant and all."

Of course she would focus on that; it was probably easier to deal with her own problems that way, seeing that she was not the only one who was experiencing a difficult time.

 

Sherlock was spared an answer: downstairs, the front door was being opened and closed, and from the sounds of it, it was John coming home.

"Molly," he said, obviously a little surprised, "hi." He kissed her on the cheek and looked at Sherlock questioningly. John's shoulders were slightly hunched, and his frown lines seemed more prominent. Also, there had not been any rustling sounds which might have indicated bags; either the outing did not seem to have been successful, or he had not been Christmas shopping at all. Maybe he had gone to see his wife.

"We're having tea," Sherlock said airily while taking in his friend's appearance, "Molly brought homemade biscuits."

John smiled and got a cup from the shelf before sitting down with them: "It's that time of year, huh?" he said, which even Sherlock, who usually did not care about social conventions, thought sounded lame.

Molly looked at her ringless hand, contemplating: "Yes," she muttered, "it is."

It took all of Sherlock's self-restraint not to roll his eyes at that. Molly obviously had not seen it, but Tom, despite her assurances, had not been the right man for her. Just because he had been sane (and boring) did not mean they were soulmates. She could count herself lucky not to be marrying someone who, in the long run, was not going to make her happy. Of course, that was something he was not allowed to say in John's presence, even though it was the truth. After all, people never wanted to hear the truth when it made them or someone they cared for uncomfortable.

With a flourish, Sherlock put the teapot on the table: "I need to make a phone call," he announced, "please excuse me for a moment."

He was relieved to be able to escape to his bedroom. It had not even been a lie; after a moment of deliberation, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Bill Wiggins.

* * *

Molly stayed for another hour, then excused herself, despite John's invitation to dinner; even though he did not really feel like eating most days, he had recently taken to cook more of less every night. He needed some kind of routine, and it was an effective way to ensure their meals did not only consist of take-away or sandwiches. Mrs Hudson had their breakfast covered most of the time, and John had noted with some satisfaction that Sherlock had regained a bit of weight. He was looking much better already, now that he was neither as gaunt nor as pallid anymore.

Sherlock stayed in the kitchen when John began to cut up some vegetables, watching his friend, who did his best to appear chipper.

"So, should we set Molly up with Lestrade?" he asked, eyes on the vegetables.

Sherlock ignored that: "You went home today."

John tensed and froze for mere seconds; he did not look at Sherlock, but eventually sighed and continued his methodic chopping: "Yes, I did."

Sherlock waited. It took two red peppers for John to get ready to continue.

"I miss her," he finally said, softly. "I can't help it. I don't think I'll be able to forgive her so soon, but still... it's hard." He stared at the peppers as though wondering who had destroyed them.

"How can _you_ forgive her?" he asked, only now looking up and meeting Sherlock's gaze. "She killed you."

"She didn't."

John gave a mix between a snort and a strained, humourless laugh: "Yeah, right. Come on, Sherlock. You know as well as I do how close it was; your heart stopped, for heaven's sake!" He pinched the bridge of his nose in order to collect himself, taking a few deep, steadying breaths: "Fact is that I can't even begin to understand how cold-blooded she was. Shooting in self-defense is one thing, Sherlock. Shooting at a friend- sorry, I don't get it."

"For her, it was a kind of self-defense," Sherlock offered.

John shook his head disbelievingly: "How can you forgive her, when she nearly took your life?" A vein in his temple began to throb. "She shot at you, after everything we've been through. After months of getting to know each other and working on seating plans and Sydney opera houses; she liked you, and she knew full well how much you mean to me! She shot at the one person she knew I did not want to live without ever again!"

Sherlock was taken aback; John rarely was so forthcoming about his emotions, at least not verbally.

"I don't think that's what was on her mind right then," he murmured feebly.

John huffed: "It should have been," he said wearily, "because she claims she did it to protect me. But that's a lie, after all- she wanted to protect herself, to keep her secret. To keep lying."

"Nevertheless, she never really intended to kill me," Sherlock said. "She was thrown off her guard when I showed up."

Once more, John shook his head: "Will you stop defending her already? She lied to me and then she went and shot you! She's been lying ever since I met her."

His pain was evident in his expression, making him look very vulnerable. Sherlock found he could not bear to see his friend like that: "Yet you love her," he said, wishing John would stop running in circles. "You love her, and she loves you. She's carrying your child. Isn't that something to begin with?"

John's shoulders slumped forward; he looked utterly defeated. "I don't know," he muttered. "I've tried to reason with myself, but I'm still so angry." He fumbled with the knife he had used for the peppers: "She wasn't at home. I can't decide whether I'm relieved about that or not."

Sherlock hummed in what he hoped sounded like sympathy. He could not relate to the problem, since he preferred to meet issues head on; sometimes it required a bit of tactics and staging, but he usually tried to avoid to unnecessarily delay things. Being in a relationship like John and Mary seemed to be so much more complicated, which he still did not understand.

"My parents invited us all for Christmas," he said, deeming John in the appropriate mood to bring it up. "Mycroft, Mary, you and me."

John put the knife down, slowly rubbing his eyes with both hands; he had imagined Christmas to be so different this year. Fresh anguish made itself known at the thought.

"I miss her," he said, sounding desperate. "I had no idea how much, actually, until I went home today and she wasn't there."

"I'm aware that you don't want to hear this, but I lied to you too," Sherlock pointed out after a moment of consideration. "And you forgave _me_."

"That was different," John said, almost fiercely, "you can't compare her situation with yours. I forgave you because I understood your reasons."

"And yet, I hurt you just as much as she did."

His friend stood rigidly now, eyes brimming; he had to acknowledge the truth in that, which was painful.

"You should go back to her," Sherlock suggested quietly. "Maybe the understanding will come later."

John was quiet for a long time, having to wipe away a few tears.

"Thank you," he then murmured. "I'll think about Christmas."

 

In order to avoid for the situation to get any more emotional, Sherlock took the box of biscuits Molly had left and inspected it: "So, Molly and Grant, huh?"

John was grateful for this obvious attempt to lighten the mood and change the topic.

"It's _Greg_ ," he replied nasally, "and yes, I think it might work."

"Well," Sherlock said, "all we need to do is buy him a Belstaff for Christmas, and a curly wig."

Despite himself, John chortled.

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

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	7. Eve

 

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**Their Best Man**

 

Part 7: Eve

 

 

 

Mary had sounded surprised when Sherlock had called her about Christmas, but she had agreed. He in turn was surprised that she did not even try to argue- he had anticipated objections such as "I'm not sure John'll want me there", but none had come. He was certain that she could guess the real reason behind the invitation, but he had also heard the slightest bit of relief in her voice. Mary had been lonely these past weeks, and she was bound to have missed John as much as he missed her.

* * *

Mycroft had audibly pulled a face when Sherlock had asked him whether they could drive to the cottage on Christmas Eve rather than on the morning of Christmas Day: "Why?" he had asked, "it's one additional dinner I'll have to get through."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment; he was not going to tell his brother that he wanted to be gone so that John did not have a reason to stay at 221B and would hopefully be with Mary that night.

"I promised Dad I'd ring more often," he eventually said. "Which I didn't. I want to make up for it."

Mycroft seemed speechless. "Well," he muttered after a while, "if you try to behave."

"Not a child anymore," Sherlock reminded him.

"That has yet to be established," his brother replied before he rang off.

* * *

Their mother was delighted, of course.

"I'll have your rooms ready," she said, apparently trying not to sound too excited. "Your dad will be ever so pleased."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock felt a pang of what might be homesickness. He knew it was deceptive; the home he was sometimes missing did not exist anymore. He was not going to be greeted by his dog when he got there, and the world no longer was a place yet to be discovered, promising wondrous things. Most importantly, his parents had long since realized that he was capable of disappointing them and vice versa.

He remembered the safety of his father's arms, the warmth in his mother's soft voice when he showed her a caterpillar he had found, and it saddened him that he did not need those things any longer, that he did not _want_ them any longer at that. And yet, here he was, feeling nostalgic about the pending visit even though he knew it was very likely going to be disappointing, as usual. Suffocating, probably; his parents had never understood that Sherlock needed other things than they did, that he could not bear too much closeness ever since Redbeard had died and he had had his heart broken so severely that he thought he was losing his mind.

He did suppose he was fond of his parents, deep down, and it showed from time to time, but more often it was hard to endure their presence, especially when they were being fussy, or called each other "Mother" and "Father" (they weren't each other's parents, after all); just like his childhood home from back then, he sometimes missed the parents they once had been, the untroubled relationship which had been possible when he was very young.

Well. He simply needed to bear in mind that the whole matter was not about him; he merely had arranged it for two reasons, namely to bring John and Mary back together, and to finish with Magnussen once and for all.

 

"Great," Sherlock now said, keeping his tone neutral even though he did feel vaguely sorry for her, "by the way, John and Mary will be bringing along another guest."

"Oh?"

"His name is Bill Wiggins."

* * *

Sherlock was quiet during the drive to Sussex. So far, everything had gone according to plan: after breakfast that morning, John had reluctantly gone home to prepare for the visit, and Mycroft had picked his brother up on the late afternoon, taking the wheel himself for a change.

Sherlock kneaded his fingers while he stared out of the window, his mind on Magnussen; he did not doubt that Mycroft would use him as well if their situation were reversed, and he did not want to allow himself any second thoughts. There was no alternative to the plan, it was as simple as that. Mycroft, though he'd frown upon Sherlock's methods as usual, would probably understand why he had done it, because his mind worked like that. He'd not approve of it, of course, and was very likely to keep berating his brother for years to come, but he'd see, eventually, that Sherlock had done the right thing. People like Magnussen ought not to be protected just because the damage they were doing was being considered minor by the likes of Mycroft.

And yet, Sherlock could not help a slight uneasiness which made itself known, probably due to the many contributing factors which might still go wrong.

Surreptitiously, he glanced at his brother; unwanted, unbidden memories of Serbia flooded his mind. Mycroft had never explained himself, never further defended his decision to wait so long until he helped Sherlock. _Wading in_ , he had called his interference. Preposterous, Sherlock thought; "wading in" would have meant to stop his torturer from inflicting more unnecessary pain on him instead of watching it. He wondered whether Mycroft really had not been aware of how dire the situation had been, or whether he had in fact enjoyed it, as Sherlock had accused him of. The latter, even though Sherlock did not like to admit it, was difficult to believe, despite all their frequent animosities.

Sherlock turned his head back to the window; his brother undoubtedly was the biggest riddle of all.

* * *

Mrs Holmes knew that neither of her sons appreciated being what they called _coddled_. Once they had passed a certain age, they barely tolerated any physical contact. She sometimes missed the little boys she once had, missed being loved and needed unconditionally. She had often tried to understand what had gone wrong, where she and her husband had failed, but she could not put a finger on it.

She knew that disappointment played an important part, unfulfilled expectations, perhaps, and the fact that all of them, herself included, were rather stubborn. She did not like to ponder these things, however; for the most part, she liked to pretend everything was fine. She had made certain decisions a long time ago, and she was sticking by them.

This self-deception usually worked marvellously, though it did not keep her from worrying, in the dark of the night, and it did not keep her sons from doing silly and sometimes dangerous things. She wished she could stop Mycroft from being on his own all the time, and she wished she could keep Sherlock out of harm's way. Since it was not in her powers to do so, however, she could at least try and make this Christmas special. She told herself she was not going to argue with the two of them so much in order to keep the peace; if only Sherlock remembered his manners, everything might go down well.

She stroked over the pillow on the freshly made bed in Sherlock's old room; she was ever so glad that he was back home and, according to Mycroft, recovering splendidly (which was rather more satisfactory than Sherlock's own answer on the phone; more than a "I'm fine" was not to be obtained from him). Still, she could not wait to see him.

* * *

When Mycroft's car pulled up at the cottage, Mrs Holmes knew better than to rush outside; instead, she watched her boys from the window. Sherlock did indeed look well; nothing in his appearance betrayed what had transpired during the past few months.

Mycroft seemed to have maintained his weight, something he'd be proud of; hopefully, he was going to eat. With a shudder, she remembered a time when he'd only have salad and egg-white omelettes, something which was torture for him. She had baked his favourite Christmas cookies and planned two delicious meals; he worked so hard during the year, he deserved to be spoiled a bit in her opinion.

 

She quickly withdrew from the window when they approached the house, and soon enough, the front door opened. Father was there before her; she suspected he had been looking out for their boys as well. For a brief moment, Mrs Holmes had a heavy heart; if only _all_ of them were here. She quickly banished the thought, however; this was not the right moment.

Mikey had brought her an enormous poinsettia: "Merry Christmas," he said with that sweet smile of his, and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Mikey," she said, kissing him back,"oh, this is beautiful."

 

Sherlock allowed her to embrace him as she greeted him, and she was careful not to squeeze him too hard, but she couldn't subdue an involuntary shudder of relief; everyone had been trying to be optimistic around her while he was in the hospital and they did not know whether he'd live, but she had not been fooled back then. She knew what a close shave it had been, and now that Sherlock was here, she felt the terror at the prospect of losing him anew.

"Merry Christmas, my darling," she whispered, not caring whether he liked it or not.

"Merry Christmas," he replied very softly, and nothing in his tone indicated that he had taken offense. He even smiled at her as they pulled back, making her heart beat faster: maybe, Christmas was going to be different this year.

 

 

**The End  
**

 

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